


Locus

by finangler



Series: Mizu Yori Aoshi [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Sequel, Space!AU, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:19:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finangler/pseuds/finangler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year 2208, John Watson got married.  Sort of. (Sequel to my Space!AU story "Watershed".)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Locus

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were created by Arthur Conan Doyle and have long since passed into the realm of public property. I’m merely using them for entertainment only, and for no profit.
> 
> Notes: So, this is a sequel to Watershed, my “Sherlock Holmes in Space” story. I recommend reading the previous just to familiarize yourself with the world that I decided to set these iconic characters in. Otherwise, there are very few spoilers for that story in this one. As before, there are a few multi-lingual expressions, which I will do my best to translate ahead of time. They don’t affect the flow of the story, and, again, may not even be accurate, anyway.
> 
> \--kun=an honorific tag, denoting close friendship or equality (KOON)  
> \--san=an honorific tag, denoting formality (SAHN)  
> -aibou=partner (AI-bo)  
> -outou-chan=little brother (O-to chan)  
> -gaki=brat (GA-kee)  
> -tadaima=“I’m home” (TA-dai-mah)  
> -Mizu Yori Aoshi=Bluer than Water (MEE-zu YO-ri AO-shi)  
> -ganbate="good luck" (GAHN-bah-te)  
> -aniki=older brother (AH-nee-kee)

Watson could tell that Holmes’ investigations into the stolen satellite data of Mizuyoriaoshi’s orbital docking stations were going well by the fact that he woke up that morning, dawn just barely peeping through the tinted windows, with his hands cuffed to the futon’s headboard.

“I take it your client’s going to be satisfied?” Watson asked, eyes barely squinted open, mouth dry and felt-lined after a deep night’s sleep.

“Yes,” Holmes drawled, anticipation audible in the stretched syllable. “And he’s not going to be the only one,” he continued, drawing a long finger down the inside of Watson’s thigh. He didn’t need to have his eyes open for Watson to see the narrowed gaze and wolfish side-smile that was gracing Holmes’ finely-featured face. The finger traced slowly and languidly back up, before sliding along the crease of his thigh and back to lightly stroke his perineum, his thumb joining in to circle one of his testicles.

It was going to be one of *those* mornings.

It was one of the great mysteries about Sherlock Holmes (one of many) trying to predict the man’s moods. During a case, he was short, focused, intense, and completely incapable of anything remotely resembling multi-tasking. Everything was put on hold--emotions, sympathy, nutrition, multi-syllabic conversations--until the satisfactory resolution of a case. These things were all, according to Holmes’ impatient and snarling defenses, distractions from the main goal; the solving of a mystery. The needs of the client, Holmes would sometimes add, even though Watson had learned early enough that Holmes saw his clients rarely as people, and always as mediums for the captivating problems that punctuated Holmes’ days.

This abstention, unfortunately, included Watson himself. It had been hard, at first, for Watson not to be hurt, and sometimes angered, by Holmes’ callous barbs or the going *days* on end ignoring Watson who, more times than not, was right by his side in the whole ordeal. Sex, naturally, was non-existent. But Watson had learned, after a few spectacular rows and truly epic case closures, to put such feelings in perspective; to accept Holmes’ focus during the short periods his cases consumed and to give the man the space he needed to do what had to be done. Watson himself would have punched any man who tried to interrupt any delicate surgery of his with inane chatter and conversation; it was understandable. And, Holmes always, in the euphoria and adrenaline dump of a successful case, made it up to Watson in the end.

As he was doing now. Watson’s breath hitched slightly as Holmes exerted more pressure, stroking along the perineum back toward his hole, while his thumb massaged his sac. It was torturous and slow and promised to have Watson practically whining in the next five minutes. Watson had been less available to Holmes lately for his casework and had been unable to go with Holmes to the Tech District for surveillance last night. As such, Holmes had been denied his favorite pastime of stringing Watson along until revealing his plans and deductions in grand, dramatic fashion. It seemed Holmes was determined to make up for the deprivation now.

Little nips trailed gently up his inner thigh, and Watson couldn’t help shifting his leg and hips to scoot forward; a not so subtle hint for Holmes to get on with it. But, Holmes was in no mood to be taking hints this morning, it seemed. Instead, he removed his hand entirely, snorting in amusement at Watson’s frustrated groan. Moisture suddenly enveloped his right nipple, coupled with a strong suction and scrape of teeth. Watson cried out, his hands pulling futilely against the bracelets. All he could do was throw his head back on the pillow gasping out his breath toward the ceiling, watching as the sky brightened above and around him.

In truth, Watson didn’t mind these little games of Holmes’. What was a little tying up every now and then, after all? But a small part of him worried what such enjoyments were saying about him. Not just to society, but to Holmes. Did Holmes view him as a toy? As an object? Watson himself was only used to some Army fooling around; wrestling and pushing and an equal meeting of strength as two bodies pushed and pulled. Such long, drawn-out seductions weren’t part of his repertoire.

Watson was drawn from these thoughts as a warm, wet pressure began circling his hole. Holmes had, in Watson’s distraction, pulled out the slick, and had coated his fingers in it. The stuff was warm and tingling, and the minute it found Watson’s prostate, he would be *sobbing.*

“Holmes, do we, oh god, do we have time for this?” Watson gasped, the first finger breaching the muscle and the nerves stimulated by the menthol additive that slick had taken to adding.

“Why, Watson-kun?” Holmes asked mischievously, tongue lightly dipping into his navel. “Do you have somewhere you have to be?”

“I have that interview, oh, god that…right there. You know, the one in Ichi…” he trailed off, his eyes practically crossing, as a second finger was added, and coated his nerve endings with the stuff, skimming and skirting his prostate. He cried out, his heart thrumming wildly in his chest, not even able to keep up to the own beat it was setting for itself.

“Oh.” Holmes inquired innocently, blowing lightly on Watson’s reddened, weeping cock. “Is that today?”

“You *know* it is!” Watson cried out, before swallowing his own breath as Holmes licked a long slow stripe up the underside of him. He circled the head lightly with his tongue before pulling his head away entirely.

“Apologies, Watson-kun. It slipped my mind entirely.” Holmes stopped what he was doing, two fingers still well into Watson’s ass, his mouth leaving his groin and heading up once again for Watson’s nipple. He blew on the moist one, causing Watson to whine, as he feared he would. “You have three hours before you have to be there, if I remember correctly. If you like, I can stop now?” He followed the question with a deliberate scrape along his prostate while nipping at the poor abused nipple.

Watson threw his head back onto the pillow in defeat, allowing his straining arms to go slack, the metal clacking against the headboard as the fight was taken out of him. “Oh just fuck me, then,” he replied.

He could feel the self-satisfied chuckle as it was expelled across the nipple. “With pleasure,” Holmes responded.

The next hour and twenty minutes were torture and, sure enough, Watson was practically sobbing for breath as it was pummeled out of him by Holmes’ cock. Holmes had taken several intermissions in order to whisper against Watson’s skin just how he had deduced that the satellite plans could only have been stolen by an insider (the personal assistant, in fact) and that, because of the man’s sudden increase in the quality of his shoes and trousers, Holmes was able to trace the unexplained appearance of wealth to several hefty payments made by a corporate saboteur. A saboteur who, interestingly enough, had been caught red-handed that very morning attempting to auction the plans to the highest bidding rival. It was all very fascinating and, were Watson in any other position than the one he was in, he would have found it extremely compelling. But, as things stood, Watson was instead wincing and damning Holmes for his lack of mercy.

But, Holmes was not without some compassion. He took great care to make sure Watson’s bad leg was comfortably settled over Holmes’ shoulder before setting his grueling rhythm. By that point, Watson had been practically clawing at whatever bit of the wall he could reach with his hands positioned so and wouldn’t have thought to warn Holmes about it. Later, he would be absurdly touched by the gesture; now, he was cursing and grunting at Holmes in every foreign dialect he had picked up during his army stint.

“Third time’s the charm, Watson-kun,” Holmes stuttered brokenly, reaching up to kiss Watson’s mouth messily and wetly, his superior height keeping him from having to bend Watson entirely in half to do so. Watson squeezed the muscles of his sphincter hard as he came explosively; a petty revenge. Holmes himself came with a spasmodic shout and a firm bite at the juncture of Watson‘s neck and shoulder. There would be a *spectacular* mark there in less than an hour.

Watson was just grateful his dress uniform had a high collar.

 

* * *

Watson did indeed end up being late, although not only due to Holmes’ machinations, which the man had sullenly denied while chewing mindlessly on a nutrition bar as Watson struggled achingly into his good uniform, cursing Holmes as he went.

 _“Ganbate,”_ Holmes had called after him, as Watson had rushed out the door, pushing his tie into his vest, and straightening his beret as he went. The strata seemed to be in conspiracy against him as well, the line running ten minutes late. Watson couldn’t decide if he wanted to believe Holmes had had something to do with this as well. It was childish and unfair to Holmes, but there was no denying that the man was dead set against Watson getting this job.

At first, Holmes had been happy for Watson when, on a sunny day three months ago and three months after their first meeting, Watson had run into an old friend of his from Med school. Stamford hadn’t been what Watson would call a friend, more an acquaintance. He’d been in the nursing program, and had been assigned to Watson during his residency. They were very different in personalities and, while Watson prided himself on being the type of guy who could get along with anybody, Stamford was a personality best taken in small doses.

But, Watson was so very far from home. Other than Holmes, whose company, dear as it was, was sporadic at best, Watson had no other friends. Madison, discharged and disgraced, had chosen to take a carrier back to New Hastings to move in with her sister. JJ had been born not two weeks ago, a beautiful, bouncing baby boy. She had sent a video message of the wriggly, mumbling baby to Watson, promising to keep him updated as the child developed. He had shown the capture to Holmes who had immediately gotten a look on his face as though Watson had handed him some sort of time bomb.

“It’s very…wrinkly.” He had replied, and Watson knew it was a lost cause, and so simply snatched his sync back from the man to watch again in fond amusement. With Madison gone, Stamford had seemed like a suitable substitute.

“There’s been lots of openings at the PubMed down in Ichi District lately. What with the conflict resolution about to be declared, lots of refugees coming and going. They need trained medical personnel,” Stamford had mumbled one day at lunch as he ate. “Why haven’t you listed?” Stamford had asked, curious, but not overly so.

It was a good question. At first, Watson had still been unwell. Muscle fatigue and spasms had shook him terribly the first few months of moving in with Holmes. It would be a bad thing to suddenly lose the ability to control your hands while in the middle of a surgery. Worse still, a voice in his mind declared, to have a mental breakdown.

It was true; though many of his hallucinations and abrupt changes in sensory input and temper control had been the result of systematic and illicit experimentation on the unwitting man, it would have been too much to hope for that purging the chemical from his body would be the end of his problems. He still had nightmares, the occasional anxiety attack and feeling of overwhelming listlessness and disconnect. It had faded as the months passed, but it was always there, a parasitic fear underneath his skin. He hadn’t dared to apply for anything so heavy in responsibility. And then, there had been Holmes’ cases. They would come in ebbs and flows, like the tides that licked at their house’s moorings. The high of adventure and the adrenaline of chases and fights and subterfuge--it wasn’t something that could be easily matched by shift work and repetition of med-checks. Watson had told himself that he would look for a job, a *real* job, once this case had ended, or that client was satisfied, shamefully knowing it to be a lie even as he thought it.

But now, things were different. He was feeling well; had graduated from physical therapy to full-on (if milder than what he was used to) work-outs at the gym, Holmes occasionally accompanying him to hit the bag for a while and then goad Watson into one more sit-up, one more set at the virtual simulators. He hadn’t had an attack for some time, and even then, it had been manageable and brief. He doubted he was ready for anything so intense as reconstructive surgery or limb renewal, but helping to ease the flow of the injured for basic check-ups was surely within his abilities.

So, Watson had taken to emailing his stats to any hospital that was listing. The VetMed had been eager to schedule him for an interview panel, what with their load being even heavier thanks to the sudden dismissal and arrest of Dr. Xue, but there was already a list of rankers with seniority over him. He couldn’t stow all his cargo on one carrier and so continued his frenzied applications. Holmes had initially been pleased, seen the effort as a sign of Watson’s wellness. But, like all things, the moment it had inconvenienced him, Holmes had taken to sniffing disdainfully at the prospect, tossing out mild comments meant to be inflammatory. Occasionally, Watson obliged him with an irritated shoutback, but most times, he ignored the remarks to continue studying and brushing up on the latest medical e-publications on his reader, while sitting closely next to Holmes’ sprawling form.

Watson found himself missing the heat radiating from Holmes’ body as he waited in the sterile waiting room at the PubMed Head Office. As it was, he felt Holmes’ grossly inappropriate hickey like a fresh tattoo on his skin as he stood there, waiting for his name to be called for panel.

The PubMed in Ichi was one of the oldest and most revered of the planet, in the first District to be founded. Vaguely shaped like Aesclepius, the head of the snake ended up towering over the main entryway to make a sterile, pointed shape. The old founding families frequented this place. Getting a post here, even just locum work, could make him. The pay would grow to be significant, provided he did good work. He could put a more equal share into the rent with Holmes. He hadn’t realized how much he missed consistent work.

“Captain Watson?” the visored PA called out into the room. The screen of her spectacles no doubt was constantly streaming with updates, messages, and alerts on the side facing her eyes. Watson hoped that explained her less than interested about-face when he answered: “Yes, that’s…present.”

He was shown in to the boardroom, a long holographic projector table separating Watson from the panel of about half a dozen sharply suited members. Watson had only a few moments to appreciate the spectacular view opposite him afforded by the huge view screen behind them. They were so high that the PV’s on the Flow were actually almost on a level.

“Captain Watson, thank you for your interest in the locum position,” the Board head began. She was an older woman, severe but not unwelcoming. Watson found himself standing at attention, mentally reassuring himself that his uniform was immaculate, if still a little ill-fitting. “We’ve read your stats, but tell us a bit about yourself.”

“I’m from New Hastings colony. Twenty-seven. Graduated from the New Hastings Territorial Military College, specializing in combat medicine. Attended the Territorial Army, Medical Arm medical program. Graduated in the top ten percent. Spent two years on active duty, until I was medically invalided eight months ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, not disingenuously. “I hope you’re recuperating well.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You haven’t decided to return home, Captain?”

“I…no, I’ve made roots here. I would like to stay. I would like to find work here.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Children?”

John almost laughed at the mental image that caused. “No.”

“Very good,” she flicked her finger along the holographic projection screen, flipping through the pages and addendums to his stats. The silence would have been nerve-wracking, but the military man in him was used to being made to stand and wait while people worked around him. It wasn’t as uncomfortable to him as it could be to others.

“Here’s my concern, Captain,” she said, leaning forward intently, steepling her fingers. It reminded Watson a bit of Holmes. “I respect the service you’ve given to the Sector and your own personal injuries sustained. However, the PubMed has a very high standard of service. No offense intended, but TAMA standardization and accreditation is very different from those of the territories. I think I speak for the entire board when I say that I would be uncomfortable offering a position to somebody whose standards we can’t verify.”

Watson was sure his face was as passive as he could make it, but only thanks to years of training. As it was, he could feel that pressure low in his chest. He didn’t respond.

“You…you can talk, Captain Watson. This isn’t the military.”

“I appreciate your time, then.” He wasn’t sure what else he should say.

“We would be willing to consider your stats again, if you could addend a MPE score. That would give us a better idea of how to best place you.” Watson nearly dropped his jaw. The Medical Proficiency Exam was used as a standardized evaluation. Because of his specific and specialized career path, he’d never had to take it. Had never even practiced it.

“The Territorial Medical Council will be hosting another testing session in six weeks, if that helps. We’ll hold onto these until then.” Sensing a dismissal when he heard one, Watson thanked them for their time numbly and walked out, depression already settling in. Bad enough to not get a job, but worse to be told that one’s life experiences weren’t sufficient. As if all his pain and misery and hardship had been for nothing.

Anxiety gripped Watson as he walked back toward the strata station, his limp more pronounced than it had been in months, fuelling his despair. He was overreacting, he knew. It wasn’t such an unfair request after all. It was one he himself would have imposed upon a new hire, if he were on the administrator’s panel. But, the MPE was no simple test; many had to study for it for months in advance and Watson had nowhere the same amount of time.

Stop it! He commanded himself. You’re a TAMA Doctor. That’s no little thing. Watson knew that all of the little insecurities that had been building up in the last month were coming to a head and that to continue this way would only make a difficult, but in no way insurmountable, situation worse. He was mentally giving himself a pep talk, and so almost missed his name being shouted at him from across a thoroughfare.

Turning abruptly with (thankfully) minimal twinging in his hip, Watson was surprised to see EI Lestrade stalking toward him. Watson had grown to like the short Enforcement Investigator over the last six months. His impatient manner had at first been grating to Watson’s more friendly demeanor, but Lestrade also possessed a deep sense of duty and a cybernetic leg from a near-fatal callout in the line of duty--two traits that engendered great sympathy in Watson. Watson still couldn’t help but be surprised at being hailed in the middle of the thoroughfare however; although he and Lestrade could roll eyes and commiserate at Holmes’ antics together, they never saw each other outside of crime scenes. The other man had now approached Watson and was now scowling up into his face.

“Captain Watson, I thought that was you.”

“And so it is. How are you, EI Lestrade?”

“Eh,” the man grunted, continuing on as if Watson had not spoken, “I’m surprised to see you by yourself, Captain.” Watson tried not to take offense at the assumption that he was somehow attached to Holmes like a shadow or a satellite.

“Holmes is working today, I think.”

 _“Mah, mah._ I figured as much.” Lestrade still had that look on his face; that look that cried out that the wearer was revving himself up to ask a favor he particularly did not want to ask. “So, he’s not likely to be coming by the Post then?”

“I really don’t know,” Watson replied, noting the asperity in his voice, and trying to quell it.

“Oh? Honeymoon over?” It was meant as a joke, Watson was sure, because there was no malice in Lestrade’s inescapably transparent expression. But, that didn’t stop Watson’s face from freezing into severe irritation. Lestrade must have noticed, because he suddenly swallowed awkwardly, before breaking eye contact and brushing off his uniform hat to twist between his hands nervously. His now visible military-style haircut was a shock of black against sallow skin.

“Can *I* help you with something?” Watson asked, choosing not to comment on the inappropriateness of judging an acquaintance’s love life.

“I’m sorry, Captain. Didn’t mean to twitch ya. Just that there’s been an…issue that’s come up. My supervisor’s thinking that it would be best to bring in Mr. Holmes for consultation. Naturally, I disagree.”

“Naturally.” Watson could see Lestrade examining his face for a reaction. Ever since Watson had first appeared in Holmes’ frenetic orbit, Lestrade had developed a bizarre fascination with their relationship. Not so much as to the particulars, but he simply seemed to think Watson’s continued presence was some sort of oddity, like a leprechaun or an extra-terrestrial. Whenever Holmes mentioned “going home” or “my partner”, Lestrade would shift his gaze from Holmes’ self-possessed expression to analyze Watson’s far more revealing one. Thankfully, Watson was not easily embarrassed about his living arrangements, or his blush would have given it away long ago. As it was, Lestrade was looking at Watson as if trying to guess if his comment about Holmes had somehow offended Watson by extension.

“But when the supe says to do, then you’ve got to do. You understand, I’m sure?” Lestrade seemed to be trying to appeal to Watson’s military nature in order to smooth the waters, and Watson couldn’t find it in himself to drag the matter out.

“Yeah. What do you need Holmes for? Maybe I can help?”

“Oh, no, Captain,” Lestrade laughed. “I doubt you would be able to help with it. The only reason Gregson wants Holmes in on it is because he knows Holmes has ‘experienced insight’ into the workings of the crazy. It wouldn’t be of much interest to you. _Ne,_ but if you could tell Holmes that I want him in my office tomorrow so I can consult with him, I’d appreciate it.”

They parted ways soon after that, Lestrade relieved to have passed on the burden of asking a favor of Holmes to Watson, and Watson fighting his rising irritation. Being discounted twice in one day was causing him to kick mindlessly at the permacrete thoroughfare, which was playing with the devil really, as his leg was still prone to suddenly seizing. It shouldn’t bother him; life was going so well these last six months, better than he had dared to expect immediately after his injury. Six months ago, his only apparent path was disability and discharge, drug addiction and desperation. Now, he had a home, a lover who had the very real possibility of becoming something substantially more, and all his limbs and faculties. Someday, he would even have his career and his health back. To begrudge any of this was petty and stupid. But Lestrade’s laughing dismissal of Watson’s usefulness, of his assumption that Watson was some sort of personal assistant to Holmes, scurrying about planning Holmes’ day and fetching and carrying, an extension not a partner, added fuel to the fire. Could two people be inseparable but still independent of each other? Given another 6 months, another 6 *years*, would Captain Watson still exist? Or would he be “Holmes’ Watson”?

His thoughts continued on that trajectory for the entire ride home as well as the brief walk from the station back towards the dock. The days were getting colder and shorter; Mizuyoriaoshi’s two moons were already visible on the horizon as the sky faded from blue to pinkish grey. The larger of the two, Kurokami, was an enormous, and relatively close, gaseous satellite which housed an impressive number of gas mines and distilleries. Nestled to the right of it was the much smaller, and far less colorful, Garandou which, as far as any geophysicists could discern, was a completely useless lump of dead, lifeless rock. The aptness of the metaphor caused Watson to scowl as he made the turning down the dock towards 221B. His mind already turned toward shower, bed and quiet.

Instead, Watson came home to discover a fat man communing with their closed and (hopefully) locked front door.

Contrary to Mrs. Hudson’s theory, Holmes generally did not spend standard hours at home entertaining clients. Instead, he took the strata to the heart of the Waterfront district, and walked the three sections to a nearby forum. It was a large, open area, where business types and students alike would gather to meet for lunch, conversation, or partake in the open sync signals. There was a large park out front for setting up impromptu games. Holmes would settle himself on one of the low benches and just…wait. He had posted in various e-publications his name, occupation and the location of the forum, should any clients wish for a consultation. When he would leave in the afternoon, he would leave, posted on plastic writer’s sheet, a sign with his home address and stating _“After hours clients should visit here. DO NOT inquire at the front house.”_

Watson had tried to explain to Holmes that this was no way to run a business and, in fact, making your consultation hours only available during standard hours forced people to visit you at home due to conflicting work schedules. Holmes had shrugged and ignored the argument, instead preferring to answer his door chime at all hours of the evening and early morning, to Watson’s eternal irritation.

Which was why seeing a client at their front door during the early afternoon was so startling. Limping forward, Watson cautiously approached the man. He was truly huge, full well taller than Watson and probably three times as wide. He had a pronounced forehead, dark hair, and grey eyes, not all that dissimilar to Holmes’ own. Though he was sure he had never met the man, Watson felt as if he had seen him somewhere before. He instantly went on the alert; Holmes had many enemies, the Ident photos of which practically wallpapered their house, and he was not at all subtle about announcing where they lived.

“Can I help you?” The man turned to Watson upon hearing his question. It was an involved process; first the head turned, then the torso, and then finally his legs shifted so that he could fully face Watson. It reminded Watson quite a bit of a large, hulking owl. In fact, the man was now peering at him owlishly, blinking several times in a quiet, languid manner. If Watson’s appearance had in any way interrupted his plans at burglary and/or assault, he wasn’t showing it.

“Ah. You must be the Captain.” Watson had no idea how to respond to this.

“I am.” (Was.)

“I’ve heard so much about you. Although, from all the stories, I would’ve thought you’d be taller.” The two statements didn’t seem at all related to each other, but perhaps Watson was missing something.

“Sorry to disappoint.” The man didn’t respond at all, and simply continued to peer at Watson myopically. He would have felt unnerved, but the man had an utter lack of guile about him, as if he had wandered off some well-worn path and was now lost, but in surroundings so wholly unfamiliar that they couldn’t even invoke a sense of danger.

“Can I help you?” He repeated. “Are you looking for…somebody?”

“Yes. I believe my brother lives here.”

* * *

The sudden appearance of his lover’s heretofore completely unknown brother brought shock and, of course, anxiety as Watson scurried to simultaneously shake the man’s hand and bow in greeting, unlock the door and show him in. Holmes (well, the *other* Holmes) moved his bulk much slower than Watson did into the house. Upon being offered a seat and something to drink (which Watson couldn’t 100% guarantee there would be any such thing available in the house), Holmes-san peered about the house slowly, as if trying to memorize every detail of his brother’s existence. There was no sense of familiarity in the analysis and Watson was trying to figure out a polite way to ask for the man to verify his identity when Holmes unexpectedly burst through the door, stridently calling out _tadaima_ to Watson.

Despite the flustering inconvenience of Holmes-san’s sudden appearance, it was full well worth it to see the look of shock on Holmes’ face once he registered his brother’s presence.

“Mycroft!” Holmes called out, stopping in his tracks. Watson could see Holmes mentally reviewing in his mind, completely at a loss. “Is it Christmas already?”

“You know it isn’t,” Mycroft responded, his voice deeper than Holmes’, with a rumble beneath it as if just the act of speaking required some great preparation. His tone was short and to the point, but there was no doubt as to the affection underlying it. “I decided to come down and see how my brother is getting on. Still not eating consistently, I see. No doubt whatever case that’s taking you over to the Labor District has been distracting you at meal times. I hope the landlady you spoke with today didn’t get close enough to you to spill anything else on you besides her bub.”

If Holmes was at all as disconcerted by his brother’s frank appraisal as Watson was, he didn’t show it. Instead, he quirked a knowing smile, and glanced sheepishly down at the slag stains on his shoes and the wet, discolored stain on his shirtfront that Watson had only just now been called to notice. He placed his e-reader, which was still set to project the ‘Help Wanted’ listings for a construction company down by the Laborer’s Square, down on one of the low tables and walked toward his brother. At first, Watson thought that they might hug in greeting, or at the least shake hands. Instead, the Holmes’ faced each other like boxers prepping for a bout; grey eyes meeting and shoulders thrown back, knowing and assessing gazes passing back and forth unabashedly.

“I’m happy to see you, Mycroft, although I know you are lying about wanting to see how I was doing. You’ve never bothered to go anywhere to *see* anything in your life. But, still, I’m glad you’re here.” Holmes said, extending a hand out towards the kitchen, where Watson had been vainly searching for *something* to offer the poor man. “It gives me a chance to introduce you to the Captain, of course, who I told you about when I called last Landing Day. Watson, my brother Mycroft. Mycroft, Captain John Watson.” Watson strode out of the kitchen to stand alongside Holmes. Holmes made no effort to touch Watson, the casual hand on the shoulder or arm at the waist that any lover would do when trying to include a partner in a family meeting. It irked Watson, but then again, if Holmes wasn’t able to hug his own brother in front of Watson, it didn’t really stand to reason that he would feel more comfortable doing the reverse.

“I’m also happy to see you because I suspect you’re here with a problem. And I love problems.”

“A callous and cold assessment, _gaki_. For all you know I wanted to have dinner with my only local family.”

“Doubtful. It’s a long way from here to the Admin District.”

Mycroft chuckled, a small, heavy sound, before nodding deprecatingly to his brother, whose smile practically crowed with satisfaction. They couldn’t have been more different in manner if they *tried*.

“I admit it, _otou-chan_ , I haven’t just come here to visit; I’ve come here to hire you.”

* * *

“So what do you think?” Holmes said, adding more sugar to the processor.

“It doesn’t look very cake-like,” Watson replied with dismay. He refused to be disheartened by it; it had been his idea to bake Mrs. Hudson a cake for her birthday after all, an idea which Holmes had first been confused by and then scoffed at, but was now throwing himself into the process with vigor, if only to try and prove to Watson that he could.

“Not about the cake, Watson-kun,” Holmes practically vomited his exasperation, “About my brother.”

“Well,” Watson began, trying to stall his response in order to gather his thoughts. Brother Mycroft had only stayed a half hour at most. And Watson knew this because Mycroft had consulted his sync’s time screen no less than once every five minutes and had, upon the half hour, stood with no ceremony and declared that he was already woefully behind schedule. Behind schedule for what, he hadn’t said. “He seems very…punctual.” Watson took another minute to snatch the sugar package from Holmes’ hand; maybe *he* didn’t mind making up his own concoction, but he wasn’t the one who would have to eat it. “And very organized. I have to say, though, you two don’t seem very….alike.” (Close.)

“That’s because we aren’t,” Holmes responded airily, as though any divide between he and his brother hadn’t really registered as an obstacle toward intimacy. Watson envied him that. He and Jim hadn’t spoken civilly in years, not since Dad’s funeral. And even then, their words had been harsher than most blows, filled with accusations and resentments. “My brother is like a submarine--he generally stays below the surface, and occasionally surfaces on birthdays and holidays to wish me good luck. Beyond that, we occupy two different spheres, and we like it that way.”

“You fight a lot then?” Watson asked, adjusting the timer and the setting on the processor.

“No. Fighting would require too much *energy* for Mycroft,” Holmes rolled his eyes, but with an indulgent fondness, as if *he* were the older of the two, laughing at a younger brother’s antics. “Besides,” Holmes continued, his eyes becoming veiled and starting to stare off into a middle distance, “What would we have to fight about? He has his very well-managed and eye-gougingly dull government job, where he works to maintain this world’s secrets, while I occupy the Slots and Links and the Labour Squares trying to uncover them. Surprisingly, our trajectories don’t generally cross. And it’s for the best, I think.”

“You’re lucky, then,” Watson responded, feeling sad and a little lost that, in an entire galaxy of people, the only one left tied to him by DNA was practically a stranger to him; that, on a list of people that mattered to him in this strange new life he hadn’t asked for, Holmes was first, and only, on it.

Holmes didn’t respond to Watson’s statement, for which he was grateful, but instead snorted impatiently and rolled his eyes. “But you’ve completely missed the point of my question, as usual: What did you think of my brother’s *problem*?”

Wiping a disinfectant wipe along the reflective counter, Watson pulled a face. “It’s not really something you’re interested in, is it?” There was skepticism in every syllable of the question and Watson wished he could re-say it, if only so as not to cast doubt on Holmes’ brother.

“Contrary. I think it’s exactly the kind of thing I’m interested in.” Watson raised an eyebrow at Holmes, hoping his doubt wasn’t *too* visible on his face.

Mycroft had settled onto their minimalist furniture in the living room once Holmes had moved the e-readers and writing sheets that had been strewn about it, choosing to toss the items aside and into the air to land in an even bigger spread on the floor. Half to move them out of the way and half, Watson suspected, just to watch them fall. Upon settling his bulk into the tiny recess of their couch, he immediately began haranguing Holmes on his impractical taste.

“This couch is utterly uncomfortable. Maybe you can fit your skinny frame onto it, but some of us like to be comfortable.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that,” Holmes had responded dryly, ignoring his brother’s odd harrumph. “Now get on with it. What have you brought me?” Holmes’ eyes gleamed as he settled on the floor, wrapping his arms around his bent legs, looking even more like a little child waiting to hear a bedtime story. The sight was affectingly endearing to Watson, who was torn between this and feeling mortified at Holmes’ brusque rudeness toward his own family.

“I assume you know who Loryn Morris is…” Mycroft exhaled, leaning back into their couch, settling his weight in.

“No idea,” Holmes responded, rapid-fire and cheerful.

Mycroft scowled, either at his brother’s interruption or at his ignorance. Or very possibly both.

“The senator?” Watson supplied, intrigued in spite of himself. Despite the last six months of assisting Holmes in his cases, Watson was still unsure whether or not he should assume he was welcome to sit in on Holmes’…consultations. Adding to his confusion was the fact that this was Holmes’ brother. Watson had trouble classifying their relationship even in his own mind, and to intrude on a private moment between family members might be overstepping some unmentioned boundary.

“Exactly, Captain. At least *somebody* bothers to watch the info-casts,” Mycroft approved while Holmes rolled his eyes.

“Senator Morris is a strong Confederation proponent, very vocal about Locus participation in planet governance. I watched one of her speeches on the threed a few days ago,” Watson told Holmes, who was torn between irritation that Mycroft and Watson had some knowledge in common that Holmes did not, and gratitude that Watson was there to summarize a matter in which he could barely summon up the energy for an expression of disinterest.

“Yes, well, what *wasn’t* cast at that conference was the assassination attempt that followed almost immediately after,” Mycroft intoned, a serious gaze.

“Oh my god,” Watson responded, noting the slight forward lean of Holmes’ skinny frame toward his brother.

In spite of his obvious interest, Holmes affected disinterest. “Well, that’s certainly unfortunate, but I don’t know why you’re bothering me with it?”

“Play that game with somebody who hasn’t known you since birth, brat.”

Holmes inclined his head in concession, and Mycroft turned his attention, startlingly, back to Watson.

“Senator Morris is, as you say, a strong proponent for Locus intervention on behalf of turbulent planets. It’s a trait which has not endeared her to many factions on Mizuyoriaoshi. They feel she’s advocating military intervention on planets that would, theoretically, be able to govern their own affairs. Nevertheless, she’s a popular delegate here; her charitable works are considerable and her interactions with the public faultless.”

“Which begs the question, why then would such a paragon of virtue be targeted for assassination?” Holmes broke in, skepticism dripping from every sarcastic syllable. Watson internally sighed. He was growing used to Holmes’ cynicism toward human nature and his unfailing searches to find fault with even the most respectable of their clients. Watson would be inclined to be irritated with this trait, if not for the fact that, despite his arrogance, Holmes showed the same stripping derision to any perceived faults of his own. Every time Watson caught glimpses of any intriguing softness, Holmes was quick to stamp it out.

“That is why I am here, _otou-chan_. Senator Morris did indeed give a broadcasted speech in the Admin District, the very one you saw, Captain. She then left the casting room, and returned to her office. After organizing her files, she and her security guard went to the upper levels to get into her PV to drive home. At this point, an unknown assailant hurled this at them as they walked by.”

From his cavernous coat pocket, Holmes-san pulled out bits of what looked like old shrapnel. Watson recognized it immediately, and the shock of seeing it here, in his home and his haven, so far from New Apolla, caused his lungs to constrict painfully. He could feel his whole body tightening, and the quick, almost imperceptible, flicker of Holmes’ eyes toward his own told him it had been noticed by the other man. Not wanting to cause a scene, Watson swallowed his discomfort, before responding.

“A Miner’s Grenade? That seems…excessive,” was the best he could respond.

“Explain.” Holmes demanded imperiously.

“It’s a type of explosive, developed during the Apollan conflict. They were running out of projectiles and had no access to sonic weaponry, so they mastered the art of the explosive. They…” Watson swallowed a bit, before continuing, Holmes’ slate eyes narrowed keenly on him. “They’re triggered to explode on a timer. Usually ten seconds, but they can be longer. The initial detonation is a relatively mild explosion. The real damage comes from the shrapnel.” Watson reached out, proud that his hands weren’t shaking too badly, and took the multi-hooked device from Holmes-san’s hand. It had already been used, so the usually needle-sharp edges were blunted from force and trauma.

“These barbs are expelled in the explosion. Each has a tiny engine, which causes the hooks to rotate, like a drill bit. It keeps digging into whatever it hits, until it finds something to stop it. Stone, metal…bone.” Watson could still feel cold metal lurking under his skin, lodged into the bone of his hip. The one in his shoulder had actually passed all the way *through* his back and out the front. Noticing both Holmes’ eyes on him, he pulled himself calmly back to the conversation at hand.

“I’m surprised to see one here. They were distinctly Apollan. They’re not exactly known for their accuracy.”

“Rightfully so,” Mycroft continued, his bulk settling back into the synthetic cushions. “The Senator was unharmed, although her bodyguard suffered severe injuries. His survival can’t be guaranteed.”

“Was anybody seen? Were there no witnesses?”

“The senator vaguely remembers seeing a man amongst the other vehicles, but her back was turned to the attacker. Her bodyguard then blocked her with his body, so she can’t give any specific descriptors.”

“Amazing how that happens,” Sherlock responded dryly. At Mycroft’s censorious glare, he seemed to lose patience. “I understand how this would be important to you, _aniki_ , but I’m not sure what you want me to do.”

“I want you to find the assailant, and prevent what could quite clearly cause a political and diplomatic incident.”

“So much with so little!” Holmes responded, turning away.

“How unlike you, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, voice turning sly, “To give up so soon. But, if you feel this is beyond your skills…”

“Enough of that,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “I will see what I can find.”

“See that you do. If further outrages against our Senators occur, there is little doubt that the ceasefire will be annulled in the Apollan territory. We will, once again, have to mobilize the Territorial Army and its soldiers.” Mycroft shot his brother a look that Watson couldn’t decipher, and Watson was surprised to see Sherlock’s eyes narrow and his jaw tighten. Due to the infancy of their relationship, Watson didn’t even dare try to interpret it.

And so, Mycroft had put his energies to lifting himself out of their chair and making his goodbyes.

“ _Otou-chan_ , let me know what your results lead you to. Captain,” Mycroft turned his gaze to Watson. “It was nice to meet you,” he said, bowing formally, which Watson mirrored. “Don’t let my brother bully you, and certainly don’t let him near that sugar.”

Startled at Elder Holmes’ prescience, Watson blinked while Sherlock scowled.

Ink-black nightfall found the pair at their food processor continuing in what Watson was beginning to suspect was a pre-ordained failure.

“So, you are interested in the case, then?” Watson asked, skeptical as they walked back to their couch and settled in.

“Not in its particulars, no.” The other man didn’t continue, choosing instead to sift his fingers through Watson’s short hair. He leaned into the touch, settling a broad scarred hand on Holmes’ slimmer thigh. These were moments Watson treasured most; moments of unguarded affection that, during his immediate arrival on MizuYoriAoshi and subsequent recuperation, he had thought he would never enjoy again. Holmes was guarded in every manner of his life and, while Watson had no scruples about showing affection, he was not particularly demonstrative himself. This quiet contact was soothing to him in ways no pain medication ever had been.

Holmes didn’t continue, choosing instead to stare off into the distance. Watson didn’t think that this was one of his fugues that required Watson’s cooperative silence, and so chose to continue questioning Holmes. With the temperamental man, the odds were even.

“So, if the case itself isn’t interesting, why are you taking it, then?”

Holmes didn’t respond immediately, merely tightened his fingers in Watson scruff. He shrugged disinterestedly and responded “I have no other cases at present, and Mrs. Hudson has been pestering me for the rent again. And there are…personal reasons.”

“A favor to your brother,” Watson prodded cautiously, well aware of Holmes’ absolute discomfort when discussing anything more than superficially personal. Holmes didn’t respond, choosing instead to twitch his shoulder in a shrug.

“What I don’t understand is why I haven’t heard of the attack,” Watson mused. Holmes’ interest in politics was minimal at best, and utterly dependent on their being somehow impacting on crime. But, Watson was an avid watcher of the infocasts.

“You wouldn’t have. My brother holds a…unique position in the government. It gives him access to certain…events that the general public isn’t aware of. I would imagine that he has a better idea of what goes on on this planet than I do.” Watson couldn’t imagine such a thing, and said so, which caused Holmes to snort amusedly.

“I’ll admit I’m more perspicacious than most…”

“Modestly, of course.”

“But it’s every brilliant man’s great downfall to assume that there are no others out there more brilliant than he.”

“And your brother is the one to overshadow you?”

“Yes. Amongst others, perhaps.” His tone was ponderous as he dragged slowly on his cigarette, and something in its vagueness caused a stirring of unease in Watson.

Later, after the cake has been shared by the touched, but composed, Mrs. Hudson, he and Holmes lay side by side on the futon, Holmes’ body heat warming Watson’s left side, despite the foot of buffer Holmes eccentrically insisted on when not engaging in coitus. Holmes was flipping through the various menus on his eReader, the illumination of the screen reflecting off of his glasses as Watson set his own medical reference pad aside for the night. Holmes had not asked how Watson’s panel went, and Watson found himself reluctant to bring the subject up. The other man had not shown any consistency when it came to Watson’s job pursuits. And, Watson couldn’t deny a slight feeling of shame. The self-doubt only built on itself as he lay there, watching Holmes’ engrossed profile, memorizing the furrows that appeared above his eyebrows when he was thinking strenuously. The self-doubt boiled within himself until it manifested itself verbally.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your brother?” It wasn’t what was really bothering him, but it was as good a place to start as any.

“Mm?” Holmes grunted, slowly withdrawing himself from…whatever he was reading.

“Mycroft. Why didn’t you tell me about him?” he repeated.

“Was there something you wanted to know about him?” Holmes asked, incredulous.

“Well, his existence for a start. But, not just about him,” Watson responded, impatience tinging his voice, “about _you._ ”

Holmes blinked at him, short and flabbergasted. “You’ve lost me. Which is pretty impressive, I have to say.”

Watson ignored the flippancy. “We haven’t been…partners for long, but long enough that I would think you would mention if you have any family members. What they were like. What you were like with them.”

“I guess I’m not as fascinated by me as you are,” Holmes said, not really responding to the question.

“I won’t comment on how arrogant that just sounded,” Watson said, commenting anyway. “But it seems like you kept this from me. Like, you didn’t want me to know about you.”

“Well, they say mystery is what keeps a relationship thriving,” Holmes returned, slowly setting aside the reader and removing his glasses. The actions seemed as though it meant Holmes would be focusing on the conversation, but instead he settled down onto the futon, closing his eyes. Irritation surged through Watson at being, essentially, ignored. He entertained the idea of just continuing anyway, but he knew better than anybody (except maybe Mycroft?) that when Holmes was set on secrecy, no argument would move him.

And so, Watson sighed lightly and triggered the illumination sensor, leaving them both in the night’s darkness.

* * *

Breakfast the next morning was quiet and Watson was honest enough to admit that most of the sullenness was on his side (for once.) Holmes munched loudly on cereal. _Out of the box!_ Watson’s irritated mind supplied. Holmes continued to eat desultorily, staring off into the middle distance. Watson struggled to maintain his irritation, stemming as it was, not solely from Holmes, but from his own precarious situation. He would have to subscribe to the DigiMed feed and begin brushing up on all the training he had missed out on while serving.

In all the confusion of Mycroft’s appearance and his own stewing temper, he had completely forgotten about his stress from the previous day, and as a result had also forgotten about his encounter with Lestrade.

“Oh, I forgot,” Watson broke the silence, “I ran into Lestrade yesterday. He asked if you could swing by. I guess….Gregson?...wanted your advice on something.” He turned back to his own bowl and so it took a few minutes for him to realize that Holmes was scowling at him.

“Watson, why didn’t you tell me this yesterday?” he accused, making Watson’s spine stiffen with further irritation.

“Well, I forgot, what with your magically appearing relatives,” he shot back.

Holmes rolled his eyes, slamming down the box. “It was a simple enough request; just tell me that he wanted to see me. I have difficulty enough getting them to take me seriously, as it is.”

“Well, whose fault is that, when you refuse to even carry your damn sync with you?”

“Damn it Watson, this might be important. As it is, I’ll have to run to catch the strata.”

“I’m sorry. I was distracted by my medical panel. Which, you didn’t bother to ask me about, by the way.”

Holmes waved a hand shortly. “I hardly needed to. Your demeanor, your sudden consumption of examination preparation materials, your not bringing it up after my brother left. All told me that it hadn’t gone the way you wanted it to, but that there was some possibility of future success. Why bother asking?”

“Because…” Watson trailed off, utterly stupefied by his friend’s seeming ignorance. “Maybe I wanted to talk about it!”

“Why?” Holmes responded, utterly scandalized. “Other than for educational purposes, there’s no reason to hash on one’s failures.”

Watson’s irritation blossomed into anger, and he decided to end the conversation before it degenerated into something ugly.

“Well, are you going to go then?”

“Well, I suppose I better, unless unemployment suits you better,” he shot back nastily.

Livid, Watson almost shouted out that he wasn’t Holmes’ PA, damn it; tasked with answering phones and scheduling days, and doing legwork. Almost shouted that, two years ago, he wouldn’t have taken such flak from *anybody*, let alone a lover. Almost shouted that, before war and illness had ravaged and isolated him, he wouldn’t have given Sherlock Holmes the time of day.

But these were words designed to hurt, and Watson never spoke words that hurt without some constructive purpose. Even if his partner held no such compunctions.

He also withheld the words because he realized, as he hurriedly recovered his clothes from the closet, forgoing his uniform and Holmes’ more Old Asian inspired clothes, that they were true. His younger self, filled with pride and bravado, *wouldn’t* have suffered such abuse, nor entertained such eccentric brilliance as his older self did. As he sullenly tucked his pants into his boots, he couldn’t help but wonder which of these selves had been the wiser.

 _To Be Continued…_


End file.
